siren of the ocean ⋆ 𐙚 ̊.

Though if he had actually died, then why was he hurting so much?

There was a sheen of sweat spread across Sukuna's feverish body, partially due to the temperature around him, but also because of the searing aches in his ribs. It was a blinding, white pain that spread out from each side of his torso and he didn't dare touch the area.

His eyes were useless in his state, shrouded in darkness, and yet he willed himself to move. His legs were weak, in fact, his entire being was exhausted as his palms pressed into the ground. Straining slightly, Sukuna lifted himself and he rose cautiously to his feet.

It took a bit of exploring, time spent wandering through the darkness, to orient himself. Sukuna didn't think he was inside a building or a home, but he couldn't see the sky so he was definitely not somewhere out in the open. The ground was dirt, packed firm but dusted with a dry top layer that coated his skin. And the walls felt like rock, jagged and cool to the touch, a contrast to the rest of the space.

A cave?

It seemed like the most likely option. The issue was, even if that was true, he still had no idea how he got there. Perhaps that thing he'd seen had brought him there? But if so, why? Obviously he was still alive, so he figured it was possible someone else brought him there. But again— why?

And why didn't that thing kill him?

A million questions raced through Sukuna's mind, the chaos bringing with it a dull ache that left his head pounding. There were too many unknowns.

Sucking in a breath, Sukuna's hands flew to his pockets. His phone. Patting frantically, he searched for his belongings but came up empty, pulling a low groan from the man. His situation just kept getting worse.

But he needed to move— to leave. He needed to get outside if he was going to have any chance at finding out where he might be.

And that felt like it took another hour at least. Another hour or more of stumbling around aimlessly, using his hands on the walls to guide him as his eyes fruitlessly tried to adjust to the darkness. And then he saw it.

One small area that looked just a tad lighter than everything else he'd seen. One space where he could make out the ridges of the rocks around him and the outlines of his hands.

So Sukuna followed his sight. He took whatever direction allowed him to see more than before, until stars finally began to speckle in the black expanse of the sky above him. A crescent moon hung high, casting a soft glow across the landscape before him.

It shouldn't have been that bright. So far from being full, the moon was a tiny sliver of silver that illuminated more than Sukuna believed possible. And yet, he could see. He could see enough to follow a small footpath, one weary step after another.

Really, Sukuna didn't know where it lead.

Sukuna didn't know where he was going to end up before the sun rose once more, but for some reason he felt certain it would be the right place. Call it a gut feeling.

His mind strayed from thoughts of his journey, drifting back to reflect again on recent events. Were they even that recent? There was no way to know how much time had passed before he woke up again. In all honesty, he didn't quite remember the events from before. Sukuna tried to focus, to recall images in his mind but each one looked as though it was recorded on an old film camera. Too grainy, the picture appeared smudged, the lighting too bright or too dark to make out much more than his own feet.

"Fuck—" Sukuna cursed under his breath, a hand coming up to clutch his head. A sharp sting seared through his temple before settling between his eyes.

But it wasn't nearly as painful as his ribs. The sudden movement of his arm felt as though he split open a wound, tearing through nonexistent stitches along his sides. He couldn't explain it. Unless there were bones broken beneath his skin that he was unaware of, Sukuna couldn't understand where the sensation was coming from. He'd have to take a look at the area whenever he found a place to stay.

No more than an hour later, he saw a small home. It was set aside from a few others, nestled near the edge of the forest, a burnt field lying between the residence and its neighbors. That's where he needed to go.

Sukuna could see the shimmer of the lights that were on inside shining through the thin fabric curtains covering the windows. He figured it must've been hot in there, but still, it was better than being burned alive.

As he got closer, muffled voices found their ways into his ears. There were at least two people in the home, hushed whispers and comforting words being offered to one another. Each guest unaware that one more was eavesdropping, preparing to join their group.

It didn't even occur to Sukuna that it was odd— the fact that he could make out the contents of the conversations happening inside. Even as he listened through the solid wood of the front door, he could tell that there was a familiar voice. One he hadn't heard since before the cataclysm, one he'd been hoping to hear again.

Before he could question it, he was knocking, knuckles rapping against the door five times. And then he waited.

"Hello?"

Hello.

Not 'what do you want'. Not 'what are you doing here'. A simple greeting, and for some reason it felt rare.

"Hi," Sukuna cleared his throat, "Was lookin' for somewhere to stay for a bit. Stumbled across your home, here."

"I see." It sounded like a man on the other side of the door. His voice deep, gruff, but there was a gentle air to it, understanding laced into his words. "Where were you before?"

The question gave Sukuna pause. He weighed his options as he thought about how to respond, debating what he should reveal or not. Ultimately, he decided to keep his answer as simple as possible.

"The city. But FEMA kicked us outta our homes."

"Ah, I've been hearin' about that. You been traveling with anyone else?"

Sukuna could feel his eye twitch. Hadn't he answered enough questions? He was fucking tired— tired from walking, tired from going through whatever it was he went through, tired of hurting. Inhaling deeply, he fought to fend off his irritation, trying to remind himself that the man was just taking precautions.

"I've been alone."

Silence.

And then he heard the sound of metal sliding against metal as the homeowner released lock after lock on the door. He must have installed more after the news about the visitors. Sukuna supposed that it wasn't a bad idea, though if that was the case then why did it bother him?

The door swung open to reveal a shorter man, dressed in a denim jacket with bags under his eyes.

"Come in, you can pick any room you'd like to hole up in. I hope you don't mind, but I'll have to test you eventually."

Sukuna stepped forward, crossing the threshold into the home in one long stride. His eyes scanned the interior. It was quaint. Not so old that the floorboards creaked beneath his feet, but old enough that the paint on the walls was dull in color, worn down over the years. There were a couple pictures hanging up, evidence of a life before the apocalypse.

Finally, Sukuna's eyes settled again on the man in front of him. His expression was neutral, revealing little more than the fact that he was seemingly unimpressed by Sukuna's appearance.

"Test me?"

"For signs of being a visitor," the man clarified.

And how was he supposed to pass that? What kinds of signs would they even be looking for? Sukuna supposed that if he knew, he might be able to try and prepare a bit, perhaps even seek out one of the other guests to try and get some information.

No, it was okay. Sukuna shook his head lightly, trying to ignore the throbbing that returned to his forehead, likely a result of his endless train of thought and the ridiculously bright overhead light. He was going to pass the tests, because it wouldn't make sense that he'd show signs of being a visitor.

"That's fine," Sukuna answered curtly, ready to be done with the conversation.

Pushing past the man, he walked slowly, ears tuned in to try and listen through each door he passed by. Sukuna wanted to make sure that whatever room he chose to stay in, there was another person there.

Too quiet.

Too quiet.

There.

He could hear the sound of someone shuffling around on the other side of the wooden barrier. His hand wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob, twisting it slowly until he was able to push open the door with a soft creak.

The sight waiting for Sukuna made him freeze, standing in the middle of the doorway with baited breath as he met a set of piercing blue eyes.

"Holy shit," Satoru breathed, a hand pushing his hair back as he stood up from his place on the couch. "Holy shit."

Sukuna didn't move, just stayed stock-still with his mouth hanging agape as Satoru rushed towards him. He was embraced tightly, his friend wrapping two arms around his torso with a force he hadn't quite known Satoru possessed. It left a burning sensation spreading out from his sides, sharp enough that it took everything in Sukuna not to shove the man off of him.

"Where have you been?" Satoru asked, his voice breathless with disbelief. "And how did you get here? What happened to Choso and Yuji? Have you seen them?"

It was too much at once. Too many questions being hurled at Sukuna and he wasn't even sure how well he could answer them. The pitch of Satoru's voice left him cringing, reclining slightly to create a small space between them. Whatever sense of relief, excitement, comfort that Sukuna received from this reunion was fading quickly, being replaced with a piercing ache between his eyes and a ringing in his ears.

Everything was just so loud. So light.

"You good man?"

Satoru's eyebrows were drawn together in concern, his eyes sweeping over Sukuna's figure which was hunched over ever so slightly, curling in on itself.

"Yeah," Sukuna grunted, a hand coming up to swipe at his forehead which had begun to bead with sweat. "Just tired. Been walkin' all night."

"Ah okay, that makes sense. We can chill here at least." Satoru's gaze wandered over Sukuna once more, brows pinching even further together. Sukuna's stomach twisted, irritation seeping in at the look Satoru was giving him— Worry? Condescension? Disgust? "You're not looking too good, you wanna take a shower or something? I bet the old man would let you."

What was Satoru expecting him to look like after going through what he did? Went to fucking hell and back for all he knows and he had the gall to say that, to look at Sukuna like that.

The expression on Sukuna's face gave Satoru pause, a chill running down his spine as he was filled with a sense of unease that he quickly tried to brush away. The tattooed man had yet to say a word, his eyes narrowed slightly and mouth frozen in a sneer as he stared silently at Satoru.

Clearing his throat, Satoru spoke once more, "if you're too tired we can just go to bed. We'll shower and talk whenever we wake up, might be able to get some food too."

The thought of food made Sukuna feel like his stomach was turning inside out. It wasn't hunger. It should've been, but something inside of him was certain that it wasn't. Rather, something more akin to revulsion. He knew whatever food he may be offered would not be what he needed, craved.

"Can you shut the lights off? Giving me a damn headache, so fuckin' bright," Sukuna grumbled, one shaky arm coming up to shield his eyes despite the throbbing in his side when he did so. He was going to have to check that out when he got a chance.

Satoru didn't comment on the bitterness laced in Sukuna's words as they were tossed carelessly in his direction. He assumed his friend was just exhausted, that maybe something had happened to him or his brothers that he wasn't ready to talk about. So he ignored the anxiety in his gut, he told himself that this was normal because nothing was normal anymore, and he turned off the lamp in the corner of the room— the only light that was on.

Neither of the men slept much that day. Sukuna had spent hours laying on his back, not daring to rest on either of his sides as the pain crawled along his body, refusing to let him go. It spread overnight, upwards and downwards. In its wake it left a searing sensation on the right side of his face, his stomach and, oddly enough, between his thighs.

It was strange.

He understood what was happening to him, and still, confusion riddled his mind. Feverish, sweat glistened across Sukuna's skin as his breathing turned shallow, his brain clouded in a fog.

"Satoru?" Sukuna rasped, his mouth dry and throat raw from his journey.

There was no response save for the soft muffled sound of chatter coming from another part of the house. With a groan, Sukuna forced himself to sit up, doing his best to ignore the aching but he no longer could when he felt it— the way his shirt was clinging to his sides. Damp with something more viscous than sweat, the fabric was stuck to the skin over his ribs.

Fuck. When had he even started bleeding? Sukuna supposed that he really did need a shower then, all things considered.

The closer he got to the door the louder the voices were. He couldn't exactly pinpoint where in the house they were coming from, but he recognized them instantly as Satoru's and the old man's. They appeared to be having a heated discussion about something.

"Did he tell ya where he's been? Where he came from?" The owner of the house was questioning Satoru intensely.

"Well, no, not yet—"

"So ya don't really know anythin' about this 'friend' of yours," the man cut him off.

"He was just tired, I told him we could talk today."

"Is that right?"

The man was skeptical, wary, especially after what Satoru had described to him earlier. He'd heard about how their latest guest was groaning all night, twitching in pain as he drifted in and out of sleep. He'd heard about how when there was finally enough light seeping through the curtains, Satoru was able to make out the dark, crimson stains on his shirt— they were not yet dry.

"First sign and he's gone. You too."

With that, Satoru was left alone. Sukuna could tell by the sound of retreating footsteps followed shortly by a door shutting, a lock clicking back into place.

Sukuna exhaled slowly, fearful of breathing too deeply and making the bleeding worse. The owner of the house wanted Satoru to gather information on him, and then to report back with whatever was found out. He wasn't told any of this. No, Satoru had acted like he was just happy to see an old friend, like he was relieved and only worried about his whereabouts.

Betrayal. The bitter emotion twisted in Sukuna's chest as he pulled his ear away from the door and stepped back because he knew Satoru was returning.

A moment later the knob turned, the door being pushed open enough for Satoru to peek his head around it. His eyes did a once over of Sukuna, no doubt taking in his current state, forming more snap judgments, gathering more intel.

Sukuna's mouth was pulled into a sneer before he could stop it. But he hated the look on his friend's face— if he could even still be called that. Sukuna wasn't quite sure where things stood between them.

Satoru's own lips were down-turned, a frown stretching across his face as his eyes swam with an emotion that Sukuna couldn't quite place. And he hated that too.

"You're bleeding," Satoru pointed out.

Obviously. "I know," Sukuna replied dryly.

Satoru's frown deepened, the expression registering in Sukuna's mind as disapproval rather than concern. "What happened?"

Sukuna just shrugged, wincing as the motion tugged at the skin over his ribs. Like hell he was going to answer any more of Satoru's questions, not since he knew what he was really doing. Helping out that man, trying to share things about Sukuna that he had no business knowing.

"Who cares. I gotta shower," Sukuna grumbled as he pushed past Gojo, muscles tensing as pain radiated out from his side but he tried not to show it on his face. He wasn't sure exactly where the bathroom was but he didn't want to ask. He'd find it on his own, he thought, he didn't need Satoru anymore.

The minute Sukuna flipped on the light in the bathroom, he immediately shut it back off. That old man must've installed a fucking 4,000 watt bulb. The singular overhead light had enough power to douse the bathroom in white, the tiles and mirror seemingly reflecting it all back at Sukuna. But he knew he can't just sit in the dark the entire time.

He needed to take a shower, which he could easily manage with the lights off after his eyes started to adjust. He was able to navigate the bathroom, stripping himself of his soiled clothes and tossing them on the floor before stepping onto cool porcelain.

Goosebumps peppered Sukuna's skin. He'd never imagined that he would feel cold again in this new world. He must've had a pretty bad fever for that to be the case, especially as he stood under the warm cascade of water.

Standing still, he let the water run over him, washing away the sweat and grime of the last few days. Before long, his skin began to sting. It stung in that familiar way when you try to rinse out a fresh wound, the water irritating the tender flesh, bringing with it a new wave of hurt. Jaw clenched tight, he suppressed the sound that threatened to spill out.

Sukuna shut off the water soon after. He had already decided that he'd sit in there for as long as it took to air dry if that meant he wouldn't need to press a rough towel to his skin.

But then he knew it was time.

Time to switch on the light and actually look at whatever was happening to him. It was time to face the truth that there was something very wrong— he knew it, Satoru knew it, anyone who'd seen him knew it.

With a deep breath he flicked on the light, wincing as the light flooded his vision again. Sukuna allowed himself the time needed for his eyes to adjust as much as they could before he moved in front of the mirror.

It was so much worse than anything he could have imagined.

The first thing he was met with was a face staring back at him. Sure, it's his, but it looks nothing like the reflection he'd been used to seeing, the one he'd seen every time he looked in a mirror before. The right side of his face was turning a deep shade of red and purple, the surface of the skin becoming calloused and leathery.

"Shit."

It almost looked like it had been burned, and a part of Sukuna wanted to tell himself that must have been what happened. That after he'd passed out, he was briefly exposed to the sun before getting to safety.

A part of him fought to find a way to support that theory, though the larger part of him knew that's all it was— a theory.

The reality of what was happening to him was much more complicated and irreparable than a burn. And that became impossible to ignore the minute that Sukuna lifted his arms as high as he could, exposing his sides to his hesitant gaze.

Sukuna's stomach twisted at the sight, bile threatening to rise up and out of his throat as he lurched forward with a gag. The putrid smell of what could only be described as raw meat wafted into his nose. It was only faintly masked by the metallic scent of blood.

A gaping wound expanded along either side of his torso, thick streams of red slowly oozing from them. Sukuna had no idea how they had formed nor what had caused them. He wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Every emotion that was swirling within the man had been washed away and replaced with confusion and revulsion.

And the most inexplicable part was that the contusion was not inward facing, like a deep gash, but rather it protruded outwards. Turning slightly to the side, Sukuna could see the way his skin was stretched beyond its means.

Was it swelling?

It must've been. It was the only logical explanation. But was previously accepted logic even something to be clinging to at that time?

His breathing came shallow, his hands trembling as they reached to prod at the injury. But one graze of his fingertips had Sukuna letting out a sharp hiss, his arm retracting at an inhuman speed in response to the tenderness.

What the fuck was he going to do about that?

Sukuna froze when he took a step, the movement reminding him of yet another uncomfortable issue— the stinging between his legs. He couldn't look. If it was anything like how his ribs looked, he wasn't sure he would be able to handle it mentally.

The mere possibility of his dick being a mangled mess smothered in blood caused him to retch. Heaving, Sukuna gripped the sides of the sink as he vomited into the bowl.

There wasn't much to come up. His appetite had been nonexistent for whatever reason, leaving him with nothing but his own stomach acid swimming around in his gut. His throat burned as he swallowed thickly and a sour taste was left in his mouth that he could barely rinse out.

He needed to pull it together.

It didn't matter what was going on with him, all that mattered was that no one else found out. Not the other guests, not the owner of the home, not even Satoru. Especially not Satoru.

It was really none of their business anyway, but Sukuna was sure they'd try to make it theirs. Fucking nosy, the whole lot of them. Not a single person under that roof knew how to worry about themselves and that thought irritated Sukuna like no other.

Talking about him, all hushed voices and whispers as they uttered his name and came up with outlandish hypotheses. They thought he couldn't hear them but they were all so loud they may as well have been speaking straight into his ear. Honestly, they were dumb as all hell if they thought he didn't know what was going on.

No, he knew. He knew that they wanted to get rid of him. They acted like they didn't trust him, but they were the ones not to be trusted.

A shame, really, considering at one point he truly thought Gojo to be one of his best friends.

Sukuna supposed this was to be expected though— disasters like this change people.

A sudden knock at the door pulled Sukuna from his thoughts, his head whipping to the side as he barked out a gruff, "what?"

It was Gojo. He could tell by the hesitation, the way he cleared his throat awkwardly before speaking. "You alright in there? It's been a while."

And for a brief second, Sukuna's features softened as he felt that Satoru may have genuinely been concerned about him. But he knew better. "I'm fine," Sukuna replied flatly. "Is that all you want?"

"Well, I also brought you a change of clothes because I noticed you forgot them. I grabbed them from your bag, I hope that's cool."

No, it was not cool. Sukuna inhaled deeply, attempting to quell his ire as he imagined Gojo rummaging through his things. The last of his personal belongings, and they were all being touched, no doubt inspected by Gojo.

"Just leave them there." Sukuna's tone made it clear that he was done talking.

With a sigh Satoru did as Sukuna said, dropping the clothes in a small heap at the foot of the door. Conflict swirled in his chest as he turned away, padding softly back to the living room that had become more of a bedroom.

Satoru found himself battling with what to do. His friend was most certainly not okay— but he also had no proof that it had anything to do with the visitors because Sukuna hadn't been tested. For all he knew, Sukuna really could have just been struggling with an injury or an illness he'd picked up during his journey. If that were the case, Satoru would have never forgiven himself if he were to abandon Sukuna, leaving him alone once more. In his current state, Satoru doubted Sukuna would've lasted more than a day.

Getting dressed was a difficult task. Sukuna tried to delicately pull the clean clothes on as best he could with his shaking hands. Sweat had returned to his forehead, his body an uncomfortable mix of hot and cold which told him that his fever was still hanging around.

He didn't bother taking the old clothes back to his room with him. There was no way he planned on keeping them with the way they were soaked through with blood, sweat, and whatever other bodily fluids had leaked from his lacerations. So he just bundled them up and dropped them in the trashcan.

Surely the clothes he had on would be looking the same in a couple hours, but that was a later problem.

Sukuna didn't bother speaking to Gojo when he returned to their room. Still, Gojo tried to engage with him, throwing out another maddening "how're you doing?" He always fucking asked that. If he'd actually meant it then Sukuna would have considered responding. Instead, he turned his back to him and crawled onto the couch in silence.

Gojo took that as his queue to shut off the lamp, leaving the two of them in a heavy darkness.

Sukuna had expected to sleep for maybe an hour, two if he was lucky. He had never imagined he would pass out the minute his eyes closed, his broad form laying so still atop the couch that he could be mistaken for a corpse. He'd remained that way for hours, sleeping all the way until the sun set and the day was over.

He awoke to an empty room. The light was still shut off but Sukuna could see enough despite the dark.

Padding silently to the door, the voices on the other side grew louder with each step. Sukuna couldn't help but take note of how good he felt.

Even with the inexplicable residual anger that he could feel simmering within him, Sukuna was calm, maybe even amused. At what, he wasn't sure. He just knew that he needed to move on someplace else. That house wasn't where he needed to be anymore.

Rolling his neck with a crack, Sukuna opened the door before ducking under the frame. He stalked down the hallway until he found the source of the whispering— two men sitting across from one another at a small table.

They looked up immediately. It took a moment for realization to set in, but it was clear when it did. Confused expressions morphed into fear as two sets of eyes rolled over Sukuna's body, widening with each passing second.

The one with snowy white hair spoke first, a pathetic stutter that was choked out. Just his name. "S-Sukuna?"

The older man snapped at him, "Gojo, get the—"

Gojo. Sukuna knew the name, he felt something tug inside him when he heard it but he couldn't quite place how he knew it.

"What happened to you?" Satoru's voice was broken. Fractured with despair, a result of the overwhelming helplessness that flooded Satoru's system the moment Sukuna had stepped into the kitchen.

Sukuna cocked his head at Satoru, like he wasn't even sure what his question was referring to. "Nothing happened. What makes you say that?"

"Gojo." Sukuna's eyes slid back over to the other pest at the table, irritation seeping into his face as he looked down at him. "The gun."

A gun? What did they honestly think that would do? Slow him down at best, until he had a few days to recover. Sukuna couldn't help but laugh.

Meanwhile, Satoru felt paralyzed. The bitter laughter rung out in his ears as he remained unable to move, unable to even look away from what used to be his close friend. Like a horrible car crash, his gaze was glued to the tragedy before him— the roughly seven foot tall being with half of its face covered in a hardened mask, four arms protruding out from its torso.

And it all happened so fast after that. Not even a small cry of Sukuna's name made it past Satoru's lips before the house was still again. Silence settled over the kitchen as Sukuna rolled out his neck once more, the bones cracking softly.

The old man wasn't much of a sight, slumped forward over the table. Sukuna ignored him, choosing instead to eye the younger man. The same feeling pulled at him again when he studied the body in front of him. That dead expression, complete with dull blue eyes and soft white hair cascading over his forehead as his head hung backwards.

Gojo.

Sukuna already knew that name was going to stick with him, constantly swirling around his muddled thoughts. It brought with it a sense of nostalgia that bothered him. It crept under his skin that no longer seemed to fit right, burrowing deeper until it became a part of him, something he would always carry with him.

But he didn't have time to dwell on it. Not then, at least. He had to keep moving, had to leave the house he was in and make his way to the next one.

There was no explanation as to why he needed to go there, it was just what he was told.

So he went.

Leaving the old wooden home, Sukuna turned his back to it. He set his sights on the next house that stood alone, overlooking the rest of its neighbors in a stillness that seemed impossible to disturb.

Your home.

And that first night where he spotted you through the window, with that irresistible look of fear on your face as you stood there, staring back at him. The feeling that turned over in his gut served as confirmation that he was in the right place. And then you slid the curtains shut, blocking him out like that would be enough to get rid of him. He couldn't stop the smile that split across his face.

There was no getting rid of him. You would see that soon enough.

When you awoke, you were filled with a sense of dread. Not directed toward the current state of the world and your existence, but rather at the thought of what you had to do today. Talking to people, testing them. From your point of view, it was a pain in the ass. But at the end of the day, you know you have no other option.

While the two individuals you decided to let into your home seemed fine, you could never be too sure. And even though you feel as though the tests would be unreliable, it's also all you have.

Still, you decide you want to talk to them first. You want to try and pry out whatever information you can about their lives before the cataclysm, what they did once they got the news, what they were doing walking around looking for shelter.

With a steadying breath you push open the door to the living room. Both of your guests are in there, sitting in silence, avoiding one another.

The first man, a tall individual with honey blonde hair and sunken cheeks, stares at you through tired eyes as you approach. He hardly reacts as you cross the room toward him. He just stays in his spot, expressionless, even when his gaze flits to the shotgun in your grip.

He's not dumb, he knows that there's suspicion. He figures he'd actually question it more if you weren't taking precautions.

"What would you like to know?" he speaks first.

Trust is scarce nowadays, and for good reason. You're not expecting to get much out of your guests, so his question leaves you stunned for a moment. You can feel the weight of another set of eyes on you as your sweaty palms adjust their hold on your gun.

"What were you doing before all this?" you ask, fighting to keep your voice even.

"Before the cataclysm?"

You nod, urging him to continue.

"Sales," he sighs. You don't reply, not yet. You can tell he's gathering the energy to keep talking, no doubt facing his own internal struggle— you all were. "When I was young, there was more to my life. Friends, family, school. But when I got older… I don't know. I let that all fade away, I guess. I lost myself in my work because all I could think about was making enough money to retire."

He leans forward, elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. You're not sure what to say. 'It's okay'? That feels disingenuous considering he's clearly not okay. 'Well, at least you don't need to work anymore'? That feels even worse, borderline insensitive.

You chew at the inside of your cheek, mulling over your responses before settling on a simple, "everyone loses their way at some point."

A long sigh leaves the man. He doesn't look up at you, keeping his head down even when he keeps talking.

"I ignored everything else, everyone else. I couldn't think about anything but my next paycheck. I just wanted to make something better for myself, you know?" He pauses, a quiet sniff coming from him and you stand awkwardly, unsure of how to comfort him.

When he finally raises his gaze to you again, his eyes are glossed over, the tip of his nose brushed pink. "I must have pretty shit luck. One day I wake up and money doesn't mean anything anymore. Everything I'd worked for, isolated myself for, gone with one news report."

Yeah. That's pretty fucking bad luck, you think. No one is guaranteed tomorrow, you're sure he knew that. But still, even when you're aware of that truth, no one wants to believe that fate may await them.

You avert your gaze, unable to keep looking at him. The desperate expression on his face makes you feel like you need to comfort him, and you hate that. You hate that you even asked him to share information with you in the first place.

You've never been good with people.

"I need to test you."

Thankfully, he understands. He seems to register again that even though he's in your home, you're still complete strangers. He can't expect much from you in the form of consolation.

It feels silly when you ask him to smile wide for you— like you're the fucking dentist. But he listens without protest, hooking a finger into his cheeks and pulling, giving you a clear view of each tooth.

It's not a pretty sight.

Teeth stained yellow, his foul breath wafts into your face making you recoil quickly. In retrospect, that is to be expected. These people haven't been home in who knows how long, traveling with nothing but the clothes on their backs.

Still, the expression on your face is clearly one of disgust as you're unable to stop the instinctual reaction that overcomes you.

You're sure he had good hygiene before the apocalypse. One look at him and you feel like you can picture the man he used to be. Dry cleaned suits, probably ironed each morning. Gelled hair and expensive cologne.

The embarrassment is evident on his face and you almost feel bad again. But then you remember that there's nothing you can do but let him hide out here for the time being.

"Okay, thanks," you mumble, turning from him. You already feel drained.

Just one more, you tell yourself as you cross the room again, stopping in front of the other couch.

He stares at you but he doesn't speak. He waits for you to address him first, and it's clear he's not as willing to offer up information about himself.

"And you?" You do a slow scan of the man before you, from dark circles under his eyes and the tattoo across his nose, all the way down to the worn out boots on his feet. "What's your story?"

He's wearing a baggy hoodie that he tugs tighter around him, arms folding across his chest. Your brows knit together when you notice the shiver that runs through him, the way his teeth chatter lightly when he takes a breath before speaking.

"It's not m-much of a story," he starts, stuttering when he trembles as another chill runs through him. "I lived with my brother, one of them, I have two. Or h-had, I guess."

"What happened to them?" You could take a gamble and have a good chance at being right, either the visitors got to him or the sun did, but you ask him anyways. You can never be too sure and even if he says something you expected, he may offer up more information in the process.

"My younger brother, the o-one I lived with, he was taken. FEMA had come by, saying they needed someone, had to run some tests, you know? I-I tried to tell them to t-take me. They wouldn't listen."

Your heart twists in your chest. You've lived on your own for a long time, but his story still hits hard. The longing in his voice, the sorrow swirling in his irises, it all conveys the depth of his emotion in a way you couldn't ignore even if you tried— and you were trying.

It was fucking bleak.

The whole situation you were all in, not just the shit he was telling you. There was just no other way to look at things. There was no positive lens that you could cast over your new reality. There was no space left in your mind to compartmentalize because it was all taken up, filled with endless thoughts of the cataclysm, your food supply, the sun, the heat, the pale visitor.

"And your other brother?"

The man shrugs and holds himself tighter, hands rubbing up and down his arms in a hopeless attempt to warm himself up. "D-don't know. He's lived on his own for a w-while. I tried to text h-him but it didn't go through."

"And what have you been doing since? Before you got here."

"N-nothing really. I stayed home until FEMA kicked us all out. I stayed with some people f-for a day or so but I don't r-remember much more than that…" He trails off, expression vacant as you assume he tries to recall the last few days. "Just wandered I guess, until n-now."

It's definitely not the most iron-clad story of his whereabouts, but it's not necessarily unbelievable. Trauma will do that to a person, fuck with their head, mess with their memories, leave them feeling confused and uncertain.

You have to tread carefully.

You have to decide when to trust and when to be skeptical, when to back off and when to pull the trigger. You can feel your heartbeat accelerating as the stress begins to settle in. You hate this. All the decision making, the knowledge that real lives are on the line, weighing in the balance as you consider each side.

"Okay," you sigh. You're tired of questioning for today, except for one last inquiry. One last curiosity that you haven't been able to stop thinking about. "Are you cold?"

Something rustles behind you and you imagine it must be the blonde man shuffling in his seat. No doubt he's been eavesdropping, probably wondering the same thing and waiting for you to bring it up.

He hesitates, apprehension written across his face as he weighs his response, trying to decide how much to reveal to you. "Y-yes. I'm always cold now." Sorrow is written into his words, his head hanging low once more as he stares at his feet. "No matter what I do, I c-can't get warm."

"Even with all this heat from the sun?"

He shakes his head lightly. "No, the sun burns me but its heat does nothing."

"Weird," you mutter, more to yourself. Then you remember what you were really there to do and clear your throat, drawing his gaze back up to you. "I need to test you."

"Alright. What do you want to check?"

You suppose you'll keep your tests the same for the two of your guests. "Your teeth, I guess."

Using his fingers, he pulls his cheeks apart to give you a good view of them. They're pearly white, straight and even. This time a chill runs down your spine, goosebumps littering your skin. You think back to the news reports, the pictures of the perfect, white teeth that they said are a sign of visitors.

Your fingers grip the shotgun tighter as a million thoughts race through your head.

Should you shoot him now? Or wait and see if he has any other signs? But what if you leave him be and then he kills you and the other guy? No, you should kill him now. Even if he's a human it's better safe than sorry. Right? Although, weren't you just thinking about how dumb these signs are in the first place? How inaccurate the information seems to be?

Maybe it's a bit too paranoid to shoot someone based off of a nice set of teeth. Maybe he had a spectacular orthodontist.

Your heartbeat drums in your ears as you take a deep breath, willing the poor muscle to slow down before it burns itself out.

"Well?" The man's voice pulls you back to the present. He's staring up at you, waiting for your decision and you finally loosen your grip, letting your shoulders sag as you let out a long sigh.

"You've got some white teeth, that's for sure."

"Thanks," he mumbles, "I think."

He pulls his feet up onto the couch. Hugging his legs and resting his chin on his knees, he curls up in the corner and it's clear he's closed you out now. You know that you'll get nothing more from him today.

That's all you have the energy for. The whole ordeal was surprisingly exhausting, and you decide to head straight to bed. You're still adjusting to this new routine. You only find yourself awake during the day for a few hours at a time, and after that you sleep until the sun sets.

You feel a bit more confident in your decisions when you rise again. The moon is already hanging high, but everyone in your house is alive and well. You can hear them when you press your ear up to the door— the tell-tale shivering and the sound of pages flipping in a book.

You check the windows again, peeking around the curtains or through the blinds, not wanting to miss anything important. A wave of relief washes over you when you find the views empty. Just the same burnt field and vacant dirt roads, no strange creatures or four-armed visitors waiting to meet your gaze through the glass.

But then the knocking comes. Five hard raps against the wood, each one louder, harsher than any you've heard before.

You don't need to look through the peep hole to know who, or what, is standing on your porch. The sinking feeling in your stomach is enough of a warning as to why you didn't see the pale visitor through your window.

He's already at your front door.

yay finally finished part 2! i hope u guys enjoyed. shoutout @seventasia for beta reading 𖹭

"Business marriages," your mother corrected, sipping her tea "The Kang family did it last year. Their daughter is very happy in Singapore now."

"The Kang daughter cries on Instagram Live every other Tuesday." You stared at her

"She has a Birkin collection. Tears dry, sweetheart. Leather lasts." She stareed back

“Mother, I can’t…”

Your father finally lowered his newspaper “Then we’ll need to reconsider your position at the company. And your living arrangements.”

Ah. There it was. The threat wrapped up in a neat little bow .

Agree to this circus, or lose your cushy job (where you mostly online shopped). And your apartment (paid for by your parents)

You wanted to tell them to shove their arranged meetings up their….

But you also really, really likedhaving money. And not having to eat instant ramen for every meal. And your bathtub. You’ve gotten very attached to that bathtub.

So you smiled “Of course. When do I start?”

Your mother’s face lit up “Wonderful! We’ll have the files sent over.”

Files.

They had FILES on these men.

Nothing says true love quite like a background check and a financial statement.

—

Four names: Satoru Gojo, Toji Fushiguro, Ryomen Sukuna, Nanami Kento

Four strangers

Fuck that.

If they wanted you to do this, fine. But nobody said you had to make it easy. They’d be begging their mothers to call the whole thing off by week’s end.

And that’s where your brilliant, genius, absolutely foolproof plan came in.

(It's going to blow up in your face spectacularly, but you don't know that yet.)

The files arrived the next morning. You spread the folders across your kitchen counter like you were planning a heist instead of four dates.

Dates. Meetings. Whatever.

—

Folder 1

FUSHIGURO TOJI, 28

His photo looked like a mugshot.

Okay, it wasn’t actually a mugshot, byt he had that vibe.Scar on his lip. Expression that said “I’d rather be literally anywhere else and also fuck you.”

Technically the heir to a massive Zenin equity firm.

Technically. Because apparently Toji was the family disappointment. Estranged from his relatives, only showed up when he needed money. Multiple failed business ventures. A reputation for being a fuck up who lived off his family name while giving them middle fingers in return.

Ah. A broke rich boy.

His social media accounts existed but were barely used. Most photos were him tagged by other people at bars, looking annoyed. One photo of him at what looked like an underground fight club.

Wait.

You zoomed in.

Was that blood on his shirt?

Jesus Christ.

Day 1 - Toji Fushiguro Tuesday, Hotel Bar, Shinjuku

Operation: Bimbo infiltration

Strategy: “Think born yesterday”

Toji shows up at the restaurant looking like he'd rather be literally anywhere else. Hes only here because his family threatened to cut off his credit cards.

He doesnt give a shit about marriage or alliances or any of this corporate dynasty bullshit. He likes money. That’s it.

He's not even trying to hide it… slouched in his chair, jacket thrown carelessly over the back, phone out on the table. He barely looks up when you approach.

Perfect. This should be easy.

“Ohmygod, hi!” You chirp “You must be Toji”

And then you trip over absolutely nothing on your way to the table, catching yourself on the edge with a little yelp.

"Oops!!! I’m such a dum dum,” you giggle, batting your eyelashes.

He raises an eyebrow. "You okay?"

"Fine, fine” You wave your hand and somehow knock over the water glass in the process. Ice and water spill across the table, dripping onto his lap.

"Fuck… "

"Oh my god, I'm SO sorry” You grab a napkin and start dabbing at his pants, which puts you in very close proximity to his crotch. "I'm such a mess, I can't believe I did that….”

He grabs your wrist, stopping you. "It's fine. Just… sit down."

You sit, face arranged into earnest distress.

"I'm really sorry. I'm just so nervous. These meetings make me all jittery and I get butterfingers and then I do stupid stuff and…” You take a breath. "Sorry. I'm rambling. I do that when I'm nervous. Ramble, I mean. Just talk and talk and….”

"Got it.” He cuts you off “You're nervous." He takes a long sigh then and looong sip of his drink.

"Super nervous. You're really intimidating, you know?” You laugh, too loud. "But I'm sure you're really nice underneath, right? Like a, um, a cinnamon roll. Tough on the outside, soft on the inside?"

He stares at you.

“Or not.. That's okay too. Not everyone's a cinnamon roll. Some people are just, um, bread. Regular bread. Which is also good!!! Bread is great."

"Are you done?” He finally snaps

"No. I mean yes. Im sorry." You bury your face in your hands. "I'm so bad at this. I don't know why my parents thought I could do this, I can barely order coffee without messing it up… "

The waiter appears. You manage to mispronounce three items on the menu before Toji takes over and orders for both of you.

"Thanks," you smile brightly "I'm not good at fancy words. All those French names, you know?"

"It's Italian."

"Ohh, silly me” You laugh again.

Toji pinches the bridge of his nose.

The hour continues like this. You ramble…. while Toji's expression shifts gradually from bored to annoyed to something approaching existential despair.

By the time you finally stand to leave (knocking your purse off the bar in the process), he looks like he's genuinely considering faking his own death to avoid a second meeting.

"This was so fun" you smile brightly, gathering your scattered belongings. "We should totally do it again.

He grunts and it might be the sound of his soul leaving his body.

One down

Folder 2

Nanami Kento, 26

Oh.

He looked… normal? Everything about him screamed “responsible adult.”

Investment banker. Impeccable reputation… and they really emphasized IMPECCABLE in the file.

No scandals. No messy breakups. No public relationships at all.

Every article described him as “the perfect gentleman” with 3 P’s … Punctual. Professional. Polite.

He was too perfect. Suspiciously perfect.

Day 2 - Nanami Kento Wednesday, French Restaurant, Roppongi

Operation : Make the Gentleman Squirm

You're five minutes late on purpose.

Nanami is already seated, of course… in his perfectly tailored suit, checking his watch with a small furrow between his brows.

"Mr Nanami, I apologize for the delay," you say sweetly, sliding into your seat.

"It's fine." His tone suggests it is very much not fine. "Traffic, I assume."

"Something like that." You lean forward on your elbows, knowing exactly what that does to your cleavage. “You're even more handsome in person."

Those hazel eyes meet yours, then quickly… very quickly… drop to the menu. “Thank you."

"I mean it." You let your eyes drag down his body, slow and obvious. "That suit fits you really well. Custom, right? Must do wonders for your shoulders."

A faint flush creeps up his neck.

Gotcha.

"I... yes. It's custom."

"I bet you work out." You tilt your head. "You look like you work out. What's your routine? No, wait… let me guess. You're a morning gym guy. Up at five type ."

"Five thirty, actually."

"Close enough." You grin "I'm more of a 'stay in bed until the last possible second' type myself. We're practically opposites.”

He clears his throat. "Perhaps we could order?"

You order something light… you're not really hungry… and spend the entire time making unnecessary eye contact with Nanami.

"I read that you've never had a serious relationship. Is that true?" You ask

He stiffens. "I've been... focused on my career."

"Mmm." You lean closer. "So you're not really experienced then. With women." You trace the rim of your wine glass with one finger.

His eyes follow your finger. Then snap back to your face. “I wouldn't say….”

"It's okay." You reach across the table and pat his hand. Let your fingers brush. "I can work with that. I have lots of experience."

His hand jerks back like "That's... very forward of you."

"Is it?" You bat your eyelashes.

The flush has spread to his ears now.

You spend the rest of the date making increasingly suggestive comments.

The food arrives. You eat slowly, making a show of enjoying every bite. At one point you let out a small sound… and watch Nanami's knuckles go white around his fork.

He sets his fork down. Picks up his water. Takes a very long sip.

By the time the check arrives… he pays, of course, because he's ‘polite’… Nanami Kento looks like he's been through a war.

"Call me." You wink. “ I had fun.”

You left him standing there, looking like he needed a cold shower and possibly a priest.

Two down.

Folder 3

Ryomen Sukuna, 29

His photo was… intimidating.

Tattoos visible even in what was clearly a professional headshot… which, props to whoever convinced him to sit for that. Expression that suggested he was mentally planning your murder.

CEO of a luxury hotel chain with international reach.

Also: multiple arrests.

Three assault charges, all dropped. One arson investigation, dismissed. Suspected ties to organized crime, never proven. The Itadori family's lawyers are apparently worth every yen, because this man should be in prison, not on a dating profile.

You switched to social media. His accounts were private, but fan accounts existed. FAN ACCOUNTS. For a CEO with anger issues??

Rich and dangerous. Probably bored of women throwing themselves at him.

Day 3 - Sukuna Ryomen Thursday, Private Members' Club

Operation: Gold Digger

You walk in wearing every piece of designer clothing you own. Dress with the Dior label clearly visible.

Sukuna makes no move to stand or pull out your chair when you arrive.

“Hi!” You slide into the seat across from him, dropping your designer bag on the table with a heavy thunk. “ Sorry I'm late”

He nods once… crimson eyes dragging over your outfit with absolutely zero expression.

Not impressed. Not disgusted. Just… nothing.

“This place is so fancy. Is it expensive? It looks expensive." You lean forward, smiling brightly.

“Yes.” his expression doesn't change

Okay. Man of few words. You can work with this.

Silence.

The kind of silence that would make most people uncomfortable.

You push through it.

"So," you continue, "I looked you up. Your family is like, really rich, right? What's that like?"

His eyebrow raises slowly. Like he couldn’t believe you’d just asked that. “Is that relevant?"

"Well, yeah." You laugh "I mean, that's why we're here, isn't it? To see if we're a good match? And I think lifestyle compatibility is super important."

Something that might have been disbelief crosses his face.

You flag down a waiter and order the most expensive thing on the menu.

"I love nice things," you explain. "and I can always tell quality when I see it. You can't really put a price on quality, you know? This dress, for example…” You point at the dress “….twenty eight thousand yen. Pre season Dior. I have a personal shopper who gets me things before they hit the regular collections.”

The waiter returns with the champagne. You make him pour you a glass and immediately hold it up to the light, examining it critically.

"This is the '98, right? Not the '02? Because I can tell the difference."

You absolutely cannot tell the difference. You bought your last bottle of wine from a convenience store.

"You're quite….. direct," he says finally…. watching you with an expression that's impossible to read. Disgust? Annoyance? Homicidal intent? All three?

Three words this time! Progress.

"I just believe in honesty." You take a sip of champagne. "I know what I bring to a relationship, and I know what I expect in return. Fair trade, right?"

"And what do you bring?" Sukuna asks, and you can't tell if hes genuinely curious or just morbidly fascinated by your audacity.

You gesture to yourself again, "Isn't it obvious?"

Sukuna picks up his wine glass and drinks half of it in one go. He spoke maybe twenty words total throughout the entire meal.

By the end, he looked ready to flip the table.

"This was fun," you say brightly as you leave. "We should do it again sometime. Maybe somewhere with better champagne?"

He just stares at you like you're an alien species.

“I’ll wait for your message” You give him a little wave. “Ciao!”

Three down

Folder 4

Gojo Satoru, 27

“Oh fuck off” The photo alone made you want to throw your wine at the wall. Gorgeous didn’t even cover it. He looked like someone had designed him specifically to make women stupid.

You kept reading, already annoyed.

Heir to Gojo Enterprises. Worth billions with a B.

There were photos. So many photos.

Gojo at charity galas with models. Gojo at clubs with actresses. Gojo at a beach in Monaco with someone who was definitely an Instagram influencer.…. always with beautiful women who looked like they’d never eaten carbs.

Rich, bored, and fucking everything that moves.

You grabbed your laptop and did what any sane person would do… went full stalker mode on social media.

His Instagram was a goldmine of red flags. The comments were even better.

“Marry me”

“I volunteer as tribute”

“He can ruin my life”

Jesus Christ.

This man has probably seen more lingerie than a Victoria's Secret buyer.

A manwhore with a trust fund

Day 4 - Gojo Satoru Friday, the Peninsula Hotel

Youre going to vomit.

Not from nerves… well, maybe partly from nerves, but mainly because you’ve stress eaten an entire sleeve of crackers in the Uber.

Also, your shapewear was cutting off circulation to your legs.

Why did you wear shapewear under a modest funeral dress? What were you even shaping? The outfit is practically a potato sack.

Too late now.

You're dressed like you're going to a funeral. Or church. Or a funeral at a church. Currently clutching a small cross pendant you borrowed from your grandmother's jewellery box.

You push open the door… which is heavier than it looks and you nearly face plant, great start… and immediately spot him.

Gojo Satoru is impossible to miss. Jesus fucking Christ, those eyes.

He's scrolling on his phone, completely at ease, probably sexting three different women right now.

He looks up when you walk in and smiles

Oh no.

"You must be my future wife," he says, and his voice is warm honey poured over gravel. "I have to say, the photos didn't do you justice."

Don't react. Don't react. You're a good Christian woman who doesn't react to sinful men.

You arrange your face into something you hope reads as "scandalized."

"Thank you for taking the time to meet with me," you say, voice soft and earnest like you're greeting a pastor.

“Of course.” He pulls out your chair… gentleman points, you suppose… and gestures. “Please.”

You sit, immediately folding your hands in your lap like you were at a prayer meeting.

He settles back into his chair, still smiling. That smile hasn’t faltered once. Is it surgically attached to his face?

“Can I get you anything?” he asks. “Coffee? Tea?”

“Just water, please.” You smile sweetly.

The waiter brings water. You thank him quietly, taking small, delicate sips like you were in a Victorian novel.

Gojo leans back, completely comfortable. “So, I have to admit… I was curious when my parents mentioned this meeting.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” That smile somehow got wider. “They said you were… different from the usual arrangements.”

Different. That could mean anything.

“Different how?” you ask, tilting your head innocently.

“Just different.” His eyes are doing that sparkly thing. Is he always this sparkly? Its unsettling. “But I’m already intrigued.”

Oh, he was intrigued now.

Just wait.

“That’s very kind of you,” you say, voice still sweet and soft. “I should probably mention something upfront, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Mr Gojo” You fold your hands more carefully, sitting up straighter

"Satoru, please." He sits back down, legs crossed, "Mr Gojo is my father. And he's an asshole, so."

You don't laugh. "I believe in traditional values."

"Oh?" his smile flickers

You pull out your phone and show him your lockscreen… a stock photo of a church you found on Google last night. "I actually volunteer with my local congregation here. We do purity workshops for young women."

"Purity... workshops?"

"Mmhm. Teaching them to save themselves for their future husbands." You tilt your head. "Do you go to church, Mr Gojo?"

“No.”

Just flat out “no.” Not even trying to soften it.

“Oh.” You bit your lip, looking concerned. “That’s… we might need to work on that. I could help you.”

“And I should mention” you add, voice dropping to a more serious tone “ We should have a chaperone for our dates until we’re engaged.”

“A chaperone? Why?”

“Just to avoid temptation!!!! Once we’re engaged we can spend more supervised time together.”

Gojo drained his entire coffee in one long gulp.

The server came by to check on you. Gojo looked at them like they were a life raft. “Actually, could I get another coffee? Double shot.”

Every time Gojo tries to steer the conversation toward something normal…hobbies, work, interests…. you bring it back to your values.

By the time youre finished, Gojo looks like he’s aged five years.

“I’ll be praying about this,” you add brightly. “About whether God is calling us together. I’ll let you know what He reveals to me.”

“Right. God. Sure.”

“Have a blessed evening” You give him your sweetest smile and leave him standing there, probably questioning every decision that has led to this moment.

All down

—

Now you just had to wait for them to reject you.

The week that follows is blissfully silent. No calls. No texts. You’ve done it. You’ve successfully repelled four of the most eligible bachelors in the country through the sheer power of being a fucking nightmare.

You wake up on the eighth day, the morning sun streaming through your window, a victorious smirk on your face. You stretch, feeling lighter than you have in weeks.

The war is over

You reach for your phone on the nightstand to check the time.

And freeze.

Four notifications. Four messages. All received within minutes of each other, night.

Your heart plummets into your stomach. No. No, no, no.

With trembling fingers, you open them.

From: Gojo Satoru… Round two, sweetheart? My place, Friday. Don’t worry, I’ll be on my best behavior.

From: Ryomen Sukuna Name your terms. I’m interested.

From: Nanami Kento… I would like to continue our discussion. Are you free Thursday evening at 7:00 PM?

From: Fushiguro Toji Hey. You’re weird. I’m in.

You drop your phone on your face.

Fuck.

Your reblogs and comments are appreciated 🫶🏻✨

@iheartanzai

The morning air at Jujutsu High carried that familiar mix of cool stone, damp grass, and tea drifting faintly from somewhere nearby. Footsteps came and went along the paths.

Nanami stood, one hand in his slacks, tie neat, shirt crisp under his tan vest. Even off mission, he never quite looked relaxed.

“Nanami!”

You walked over, voice bright, two cups of coffee in hand, one for you, one for him. The skirt of your dress brushed your legs with every step, soft and easy, the kind of dress that looked effortless on you, even though it made it impossible for him not to notice the way it sat against your figure. By the time you reached him, the scent of coffee had already wrapped around him, warm and tempting.

You handed him his cup, fingers brushing his just long enough to make him wonder if you noticed. You cared for him so easily, as if it was second nature, as if you couldn’t help it.

His heart jumped, traitorous. Maybe you saw him as a close friend, hence why you remembered how he liked his coffee. He almost cursed himself for the flutter in his chest was far too ridiculous, boyish, and easy to read.

“Here. Figured you’d need this after yesterday.” You smiled, and Nanami tried not to stare.

The dress made it impossible. It softened and outlined you at once, drawing his eye to places he had no right lingering on. The privilege of looking like that belonged to a lover, not to him. He was only a friend, after all.

Something low in his stomach tightened, warm and embarrassingly eager, and the fact that you’d remembered his coffee at all nearly undid him right there.

He took the coffee, murmured a thank you, and tried not to linger when your fingers brushed his. Your hands were impossibly soft. He couldn’t decide if he was grateful or just doomed to know that now.

A breeze lifted a few loose strands of your hair and let them settle again, and Nanami’s focus tightened so completely on the sight that the rest of the campus seemed to fade around it.

Nanami had just lifted the cup to his mouth when you glanced up at him again, as if the thought had just struck you.

“Are you free later?” you asked. Your tone stayed light, casual enough that someone less invested might have missed the faint edge of hesitation beneath it. “I was thinking… maybe we could grab lunch together. If you want.”

For one suspended second, Nanami forgot the taste of coffee entirely.

Not because the question was scandalous. It was simple. Innocent. Perfectly normal. But coming from you, with that open expression and those soft, careful manners that made everything sound more sincere, it hit him harder than he expected. His pulse kicked against his throat, and sudden anticipation replaced his usual restraint.

He was caught off guard, and for once, he couldn’t hide how much he wanted this, not even from himself.

He had never allowed himself to expect this, not from you, not really. He had already taught himself to be grateful for much less. A few shared minutes, a kind smile, the sound of your voice when you greeted him. So to be asked, plainly and warmly, as though being with him was something you had thought to want, left him momentarily unguarded.

Lunch.

With you.

Alone, if he was lucky.

He lowered the cup with deliberate care, buying himself a second to recover before his face betrayed anything undignified. “Yes,” he said, perhaps a touch too quickly. His mouth tightened, and he corrected himself into something more even.

“I mean—yes. That would be fine.”

Your face brightened at once, the kind of expression that always made him feel as though he’d been given something far too precious for a man like him to handle casually.

"Really? Good! There’s a place I’ve been wanting to try," you said, voice light but with a hesitation that suggested more than casual interest. "I kept putting it off because I didn’t want to go alone."

Of course.

Of course, that was the reason. Nanami hated the small, petty part of himself that had, for a disgracefully hopeful moment, wanted the invitation to mean more. Still, even that was enough. You wanted his company. You had thought of him specifically. That alone was enough to make the ache in his chest ease.

He adjusted his grip on the coffee cup and inclined his head. “Then I’d be happy to accompany you.”

Your smile softened into something warmer, almost shy now that he accepted. “Great. Maybe around one?”

Nanami opened his mouth to answer.

“Aww,” came a voice from nowhere and everywhere at once, bright with manufactured heartbreak. “And here I was thinking you were going to finally ask me on a date instead”

Nanami didn’t flinch outwardly, but something inside him went cold with immediate, familiar dread.

Gojo appeared at your side like a divine punishment, all long limbs and easy arrogance. His sunglasses were perched low enough to show the smug curve of his grin, and one arm draped itself over your shoulders before either of you could stop him.

You gave a small, startled laugh, shifting a little beneath his arm but not quite pulling away. “Gojo. Don’t scare people like that.”

“I don’t scare people,” Gojo said easily. “I delight them. There’s a difference.” Then he looked at you with exaggerated curiosity. “Lunch, huh? Cute. Where are we going?”

Nanami stared at him.

You blinked. “We?”

Gojo nodded as this had already been settled in some higher court. “Yeah, we. Obviously. I was just thinking I should take a proper break today, and now look at this. Fate provides!” He clasped his hands together dramatically. “You two would’ve been so lonely without me.”

Nanami felt the fragile shape of the morning collapsing, second by second. Disappointment hit sharp and fast, his hopes for time alone with you slipping away, chased off by Gojo’s intrusion. Frustration and resignation crowded out the last of his optimism.

“There is no reason for you to come,” he said flatly.

Gojo turned his head, offence painted onto his face with theatrical precision. “Wow. Nanami. That’s harsh. I thought we were colleagues. Friends, even.”

“We are neither.”

You made that tiny sound you always did when caught between amusement and concern.

Nanami knew instantly he’d lost. You were too soft to refuse someone outright, especially when they smiled at you like an overgrown menace who knew exactly how far he could push. Gojo knew it too. Worse, he knew you’d rather inconvenience yourself than risk making anyone feel unwelcome.

“Oh,” you said, glancing between them, “I mean… if you want to come, I guess that’s okay.”

There it was.

Nanami watched as Gojo heard the surrender in your voice and decided to make it worse.

“Perfect,” he said. “See? She likes having me around.”

“I said it was okay,” you corrected gently.

“Which is basically the same thing.”

You gave a tiny pout. “It is not.”

Gojo ignored you entirely and grinned at Nanami like a man twisting a knife with cheerful dedication. “This is nice. A little team bonding. We should do this more often.”

Nanami’s fingers tightened around the paper cup just enough to threaten the lid. Coffee shifted faintly inside it. He had spent years learning composure in life-or-death situations, but apparently all it took to test it now was Satoru Gojo barging into a lunch invitation he had no business attending.

“It was not intended as a group outing,” Nanami said, keeping his voice carefully level.

Gojo gasped. “So it was a date!”

Your eyes widened. “Gojo!”

The shock in your voice was immediate and sincere, and Nanami felt heat rise into his face so quickly it was almost offensive.

Internally, embarrassment clashed with irritation; part of him resented how Gojo could unsettle his composure so effortlessly, while another part baulked at how easily his emotions surfaced despite years of cultivated restraint. Gojo’s words left him feeling exposed, as if he were sixteen again, all awkward anticipation and raw vulnerability.

Externally, he kept his eyes forward with rigid discipline, striving for neutrality even as he sensed your attention on him, likely hoping he would deny Gojo's suggestion and restore a sense of normality.

He should have denied it.

He knew he should have.

Instead, his silence stretched just a fraction too long.

Gojo’s grin sharpened.

You recovered first, laughing a little too quickly, the sound tinged with embarrassment. “It’s not a date. I just asked Nanami to lunch because he looked tired.”

That shouldn’t have been as endearing as it was. It shouldn’t have settled warm and miserable under his ribs, but it did. You noticed he was tired. You thought of him.

You had wanted to look after him in some small, gentle way, and Nanami felt himself go weak for it with immediate, private shame. He loved that you cared. He hated that he could not stop wanting it to be something other than pity wrapped in kindness.

Gojo, of course, pounced on the clarification with all the grace of a spoiled cat. “Right. Just lunch. Totally harmless. Then there’s definitely no problem with me joining.”

Nanami looked at him with open dislike now. “You are an adult. Stop behaving like a child.”

Gojo hummed, entirely unbothered. “Say that again, but this time without sounding so territorial.”

For one awful second, silence held.

Heat rose under Nanami’s collar with immediate, concentrated force. He did not look at you. He could not. His jaw tightened instead, fingers shifting once around the coffee cup before stilling again.

Beside them, you blinked, caught somewhere between confusion and dawning embarrassment. “Gojo,” you said, softer this time, like you were not entirely sure whether to laugh or scold him.

Gojo only smiled.

You were already smiling in that helpless way that told Nanami the battle was lost. “It’s fine,” you said softly, smoothing over the argument before it could even start.

“The more the merrier, right?”

No, Nanami thought immediately.

Absolutely not.

But you were looking at him now. That familiar hope in your eyes, a quiet plea for everyone to get along, for no one to make this awkward. You had no idea what you were asking him to endure. Or maybe you did, just a little, and trusted him to be patient anyway.

Nanami exhaled once through his nose. “If that is what you want.”

Gojo beamed at Nanami, insufferably victorious. “See? You love me.”

Nanami turned his gaze back to his coffee.

“I assure you,” he said, “that is not the word I would use.”

You laughed again, quieter this time, and the sound took some of the edge off, even now. Gojo stayed draped at your side like a curse Nanami had never managed to exorcise, while you stood between them, coffee in hand, completely unaware you’d just handed Nanami the best part of his week and let Satoru Gojo ruin it in under thirty seconds.

Still, when you looked back at him and said, “One o’clock, then?” with the same sweet certainty as before, Nanami heard himself answer without hesitation.

“Yes,” he said.

Gojo clapped once. “Amazing! It’s a date for three.”

Nanami closed his eyes for a moment, already regretting being alive.

_

By the time one o’clock came around, Nanami had already spent far too much of the morning trying not to think about it.

It shouldn’t have mattered this much. It was just lunch. A simple meal, nothing more. And yet the thought of sitting with you for an hour, away from the school and everyone else, had settled under his skin with embarrassing persistence.

They found the restaurant modest and narrow, tucked along a side street with fogged front windows and a faded wooden sign above the door. As soon as they entered, they were met by the warm air inside, heavy with the aromas of broth, seared meat, garlic, and toasted sesame.

The steady murmur of conversation merged with the occasional clink of cutlery, chairs scraping softly against the floorboards, and the faint hiss from nearby tabletop grills, establishing an immediate sense of immersion as they entered the space.

The hostess led the three of you to a booth against the wall, a small built-in grill set neatly into the centre of the table. Her eyes lingered on Gojo for a beat too long, and he, shameless as ever, seemed to brighten under it.

Nanami had barely registered its shape before Gojo moved.

“There,” Gojo said lightly, sliding into one side of the booth with shameless ease. He took the inner seat first, then patted the place beside him as though the arrangement had already been decided. “C’mon.”

You hesitated only a second, clearly caught off guard, before sitting beside him with your menu still in hand. That left Nanami with the seat across from both of you.

He sat opposite them, one hand on the table, looking at Gojo with nothing close to warmth. The arrangement was immediate and irritatingly effective: you beside Gojo, Nanami alone, forced to look straight at the two of you together.

Gojo smiled. “This way the table feels balanced.”

“That is not how seating works,” Nanami said.

Gojo waved a hand. “Also, if she sat next to you, she’d have to spend the whole lunch seeing your scary face up close. I’m doing her a favor.”

You let out a small laugh, half-startled, half-amused, and lowered your eyes to the menu.

Nanami said nothing. He only reached for his own.

For a moment, the three of you looked over the menus in relative peace. A server passed nearby, balancing a tray of drinks. Sunlight shifted warmly across the edge of the table. Gojo, unsurprisingly, was the first one to ruin it.

A dramatic sigh came from beside you.

“This menu is too loooong,” he complained. “I don’t want to read all that.”

Nanami did not look up. “Then point at something and hope for the best.”

“That’s irresponsible,” Gojo said. Then, turning immediately to you, “Help me choose.”

You glanced up from your menu. “You can read.”

“I can,” Gojo said. “I just don’t want to.”

There was no way to refuse without sounding sharper than you ever wanted to be, and all three of you knew it. Nanami watched the exact moment you gave in.

You leaned slightly toward Gojo so you could look at what he was pointing at. “What do you usually like?”

“Attention,” Gojo said.

You laughed despite yourself. “Food-wise.”

He tilted the menu toward you, your shoulder angling closer to his as you read through a few things under your breath, considering them properly. Nanami sat across from you both, listening to you explain the meat sets, side dishes, and broth options while Gojo hummed as if your advice were of deep, personal importance.

When your eyes lifted from the page and found Nanami’s, he was already looking at you.

You smiled faintly. “Have you been here before?”

“Yes,” he said.

That seemed to catch your attention immediately. “Really?”

“Once.”

Gojo glanced up from the menu. “Hm. Doesn’t feel expensive enough to be one of your date spots.”

Nanami looked at him.

For one brief second, the table went quieter than the rest of the restaurant. Across from him, your attention had sharpened too much to be casual now, and Nanami hated how quickly he noticed. Hated even more the small, desperate spark of hope it lit in him.

“It wasn’t like that,” he said.

The answer came too quickly to sound indifferent.

“I mean, I wasn’t here with anyone.”

Gojo’s grin deepened. “That was fast.”

Nanami ignored him, but not before he caught the faint change in your expression, the quiet, almost involuntary easing that followed his answer.

Your reaction should not have meant anything. It probably didn’t. But Nanami, already too far gone to protect himself from it, felt the warmth of that tiny reaction settle somewhere far deeper than it had any right to.

The server returned to take your order.

You went first, choosing a lighter set after a moment of consideration, then second-guessing whether it would be enough once the server mentioned the portion size.

Gojo changed his mind halfway through ordering and then asked two unnecessary questions before settling on something he would probably have chosen anyway. Nanami added a larger shared meat platter, extra vegetables, and another side without making a point of it, as though he were simply being practical.

Once the server left, you turned to Gojo with a smile that still carried traces of laughter. “Happy now?”

Gojo looked pleased with himself. “Very.”

“You made me read half the menu to you.”

“And you did beautifully.”

You laughed under your breath and shook your head, finally lifting your glass.

Across from you, Nanami stayed silent. He watched the effortless way you slipped into Gojo’s rhythm, the familiarity of it sharper now that he had nowhere else to look. It shouldn’t have bothered him as much as it did. Gojo was like this with everyone, careless, charming, impossible to shut out. Still, it was deeply irritating to watch that attention settle on you so easily.

“You are so insufferable,” Nanami said at last, not able to contain it.

Gojo grinned. “And yet you keep me around.”

Nanami did not answer.

A quiet settled after that, brief but real. Your hand rested near your water glass. Nanami’s attention caught on it, then moved back to your face when you spoke.

“So,” you said, “why only once?”

He held your gaze. “I was working at the time.”

Your expression shifted, turning softer. “So you didn’t really get to enjoy it.”

“No.”

“That’s a little sad.”

Something in the way you said it almost pulled a smile from him. Maybe because you were right. Maybe because, sitting across from you now, the memory no longer felt quite as bleak. He was well over that stage in his life.

Before he could answer, Gojo suddenly pushed back from the booth.

“I’m getting another drink,” he announced. “Don’t get too attached while I’m gone.”

You made a small sound, half a laugh, half embarrassment, as he slipped out of the booth and disappeared between the tables toward the front counter.

Nanami watched him go, then looked back at you.

At last, the booth felt right.

You on one side, him on the other. Gojo was gone, even if only for a moment, and the interruption finally lifted enough for the silence to become something else.

You looked down for a second, then back up at him. “I’m glad you still came,” you said quietly. “I thought you might decide not to, once Gojo made himself part of it.”

Nanami’s gaze stayed on you.

“I considered it,” he said.

Your eyes widened a little, not offended, just surprised.

Then he added, before the expression could settle wrong, “But you asked me.”

Something about that made you go still. Not dramatically. Just enough for him to notice.

“I’m glad,” you said.

His fingers shifted once against the side of his glass. “So am I.”

That one landed. He saw it in the way your expression changed, in the way your mouth parted just slightly before you smiled. It was small, but not casual. For one brief moment, the noise of the restaurant seemed to recede around the edges.

Then Gojo returned.

He slid back into the booth with a fresh drink in hand and looked between the two of you immediately, far too observant for a man who behaved like an idiot on purpose.

“Oh, that’s nasty,” he said. “You two were having a moment.”

“We were not,” Nanami said.

Gojo set his drink down. “Sure.”

The food arrived soon after, sparing you from having to answer.

The server set down plate after plate between you, thin slices of marinated beef and pork, mushrooms, onions, greens, small dishes of sauces, rice, and a pot kept hot at the edge of the grill. The heat rose at once, carrying the richer smell of seasoned meat into the space between you.

You looked at it all with immediate interest, then at the grill. “I’ve never been very good at these,” you admitted.

Nanami had already reached for the tongs. “That’s fine.”

He said it simply, like there was nothing to think about, and laid the first slices onto the grill with practised ease. The meat hissed the moment it came in contact with the heat. He kept his eyes on it, turning one piece, shifting another aside before it caught too much colour, moving with the quiet certainty of someone who preferred competence to conversation.

Gojo, naturally, noticed that too.

“Oh, this is disgusting,” he said. “He’s cooking for you.”

Nanami did not look up. “I am cooking lunch.”

“For her.”

“For the table.”

You smiled down at your plate, already visibly warmer in the face.

Nanami moved the first finished pieces onto your plate before serving himself. He did it without flourish, without hesitation, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world to make sure you ate first.

Gojo made a low, delighted noise. “And he serves you first. Incredible.”

You looked up quickly. “You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Nanami said.

Gojo glanced from your plate to the grill. “Interesting. Hers is done, and mine is still fighting for its life over there.”

Nanami turned one of Gojo’s slices without urgency. “Then keep an eye on it.”

Gojo looked offended. “Oh, so now I have to grill my own food?”

Nanami finally glanced at him. “You were born with hands and are fully capable of feeding yourself.”

“And yet you’re not making her do that.”

You made a tiny sound, somewhere between embarrassment and a laugh, and immediately lowered your gaze again.

Nanami moved another finished piece onto your plate. “That’s because she’s being pleasant.”

Nanami ignored him and reached for the vegetables next, adding a few to the grill before glancing at your plate. You had taken one bite and immediately reached for water.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Too hot?”

“A little,” you admitted, almost embarrassed by it.

Without comment, he nudged one of the less heavily seasoned pieces from the edge of the grill onto a cleaner spot, letting it cook more lightly before placing it on your plate. “Try that.”

You did.

Your face softened almost at once. “Oh. That’s better.”

Something in his chest eased.

Gojo leaned back. “That was terrifyingly attentive.”

Then he reached for one of his own pieces, took a bite, and immediately paused.

Nanami glanced up just long enough to see that the edge of it had gone too dark.

Gojo chewed once, slow and offended. “Fantastic. Hers gets adjusted to her exact preferences and mine gets cremated.”

You laughed into your glass. It was small, but real, and Nanami found the sound dangerously rewarding.

After that, the meal developed its own steady rhythm. The hiss of the grill punctuated quiet moments, while steam curled upward between you in soft, transient spires. Throughout, Nanami kept a hand poised near the tongs, steadily turning pieces before they overcooked, shifting food from the hottest points, and handing items over whenever you reached just a second too late.

Though his actions might have appeared careful and intentional, his attentiveness soon ceased to feel conscious at all. Around you, he found that care became an instinct, one that revealed itself easily enough to verge on embarrassing.

Each time Nanami performed a quiet act of consideration, Gojo immediately drew attention to it, treating these moments like a spectacle. Whether Nanami passed you the soy dish or substituted a milder side when you hesitated over something spicy, Gojo responded theatrically, accusing him of being excessively attentive.

Then, at some point, without seeming to realize he was doing it, Nanami had arranged the grill accordingly. The milder cuts stayed nearest your side. The hotter pieces were turned away from you. Anything that spat too much oil somehow ended up on Gojo’s half of the table instead.

Gojo gradually stopped eating.

He looked down at the grill.

Then at your side of it.

Then at his own.

For a second, he said nothing at all, which was unsettling enough on its own.

“…Nanami,” he said at last.

Nanami glanced up. “What?”

Gojo pointed vaguely with his chopsticks, looking genuinely affronted now. “Why is her side all manageable and mine looks like a punishment?”

You broke first.

The laugh slipped out fast enough that you had to set your chopsticks down, shoulders curling inward around it. Nanami felt heat climb under his collar almost immediately.

Gojo looked at you, then back at the table like the evidence had only become more damning. “No, seriously. She’s got the easy cuts, the safe pieces, the civilised side of the grill” His eyes narrowed at Nanami. “You gave me the splatter zone!”

Nanami stared at him. “You’re being dramatic.”

“I’m being neglected!” Gojo corrected.

That only made you laugh harder.

Nanami sat there, humiliated and helpless, realizing he would endure worse than this if it meant keeping that sound in the air.

By the time the plates were cleared, you looked relaxed in that soft, post-meal way people only did when they’d been fed properly and laughed more than they meant to. Nanami almost managed to salvage something of the outing for himself through that alone.

Then the check came.

He reached for it without hesitation. It was natural. Quiet, simple, unremarkable if handled right. He had no intention of making a display. He only wanted to spare you the trouble.

Unfortunately, Gojo possessed the instincts of a saboteur.

“Oho,” Gojo said, leaning back as soon as Nanami reached for the check. “There it is.”

You looked up at once. “Nanami, you really don’t have to—”

“It’s fine,” he said, already taking out his wallet.

Gojo smiled at you over the table. “See? This is how it starts.”

Nanami’s gaze stayed on the bill. “Don’t.”

“What?” Gojo asked. “You ask him to lunch, he pays before you can argue.”

Your face warmed. “It’s just lunch.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said. “That’s the dangerous kind.”

“If you’re done embarrassing yourself, I’d prefer not to listen to you narrate basic manners.”

Gojo’s eyes lit at once. “Basic manners?”

Nanami already looked like he regretted phrasing it that way. “Yes.”

Gojo leaned back, delighted. “Right. So if I asked you to lunch tomorrow, just the two of us, you’d pay for me too?”

That landed.

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

Nanami’s expression hardened. “No.”

Gojo smiled, satisfied. “See? Now we’re being honest.”

Nanami could feel the server hovering just close enough to hear all of this, which made it worse in a way he hadn’t thought possible five seconds ago. He took out his wallet with the resignation of a man being publicly executed in stages.

You looked mortified on his behalf now, which should have helped and somehow didn’t. “Nanami,” you said softly, “really, I can pay for myself.”

He looked at you then, properly, and his voice dropped despite himself. “I know you can.”

Something in your expression shifted. Not flustered this time, not because of Gojo, but because he’d answered you seriously. Your fingers, reaching for your bag, paused.

Then he finished, because anything softer would have been a mistake. “But I offered.”

You held his gaze for a second longer than before. “...Thank you.”

Gojo looked between the two of you and made a face like a man witnessing his favorite drama reach a critical point. “Disgusting,” he said. “You’re both being very weird about lunch.”

Nanami handed over the bill without looking at him.

The server failed to suppress a smile.

Chairs scraped lightly over the floorboards as other tables rose to leave. The front door opened and shut often enough now that the warmth inside no longer held steady. Every few minutes, a cooler draft slipped in from the street and moved through the room before fading again.

You reached for your bag and shifted in the booth, only for the tight space to make the movement awkward. Gojo was still half in the way, stretched lazily along the outer edge like he had never once in his life considered moving efficiently for someone else’s sake.

Nanami stood at once.

He stepped in without making much of it and offered you a hand. The gesture was simple, practical, but when you placed your hand in his and let him guide you out of the booth, the contact still landed harder than it should have. Your fingers were soft in his again. Warm. He let go as soon as you were steady.

Then the front door opened behind you.

A draft moved through the restaurant and caught at the bare skin of your arms. You drew them in a little, not dramatically, just on instinct, before letting them fall again.

Nanami noticed immediately.

Of course he did.

His eyes dropped there for one brief second. Your arms. The lighter fabric of your dress. The cold coming in each time the door opened. The thought followed so quickly that it barely felt like one.

He should give you his suit jacket.

His hand lifted a fraction toward the front of it.

Gojo caught the movement at once.

“Oh, wow,” he said, smiling as though Christmas had come early. “You were really considering it.”

Nanami looked at him. “Considering what.”

“The jacket.”

You went still beside him.

Nanami’s expression did not change, but he could feel the moment sharpen around the three of you. “You are making assumptions.”

Gojo’s grin widened. “That’s not a no.”

“I did not realize I was required to answer nonsense.”

You looked between them, warmth creeping into your face. “I’m fine,” you said quickly, even though your hands had brushed lightly over your own arms a second earlier.

Nanami glanced at you.

Gojo made a soft, disbelieving sound. “You’re both making this incredibly easy for me.”

“Gojo,” you said, trying and failing to sound firm through the embarrassment.

“What? I’m not wrong.”

Nanami stepped aside then, one hand indicating the aisle. “We’re leaving.”

You moved first. Gojo followed, still far too pleased with himself, and Nanami came after you both with the distinct feeling that the last thirty seconds had done more damage than the entire lunch.

Outside, the afternoon looked warmer than it felt. Sunlight lay across the pavement, but the breeze moving between the buildings had sharpened. People passed in uneven clusters along the street, and every time the wind turned the corner it caught at hems, sleeves, loose hair.

Gojo stretched as though he had done something exhausting instead of tormenting him for an hour and a half.

“That was nice,” you said, adjusting your bag higher on your shoulder. “I’m glad we still went.”

Nanami looked at you. There was still some leftover warmth in your face from inside, but now that you were standing in the open air, the breeze was getting to you properly. You were trying not to show it. He could tell.

Gojo could too, apparently, because he glanced between the two of you and went suspiciously quiet for half a second. That alone was enough to make Nanami wary.

You tucked a strand of hair back and laughed softly at something Gojo muttered under his breath, but the next gust of wind made your shoulders pull in again before you seemed to catch yourself.

That was enough.

Nanami reached for his suit jacket in an instant.

You noticed immediately. “Nanami—”

He had already slipped it off.

The movement was simple, practiced, but it changed him at once. Without the jacket, the dark dress shirt beneath sat closer to him than you were prepared for, fitted cleanly across his shoulders and chest, the sleeves drawn neatly over forearms that somehow looked stronger now that nothing softened the line of them.

He had always looked put together. Controlled. But this was worse. More real somehow. Less buffered by tailoring. Sharp and quietly masculine in a way that made your thoughts catch.

“It’s colder out here than it looked,” he said, like this was the only reason and the matter was too ordinary to argue with.

Your eyes widened just a little.

Not only because of the tan suit jacket in his hands, but also because you were now looking at him properly and finding it difficult to stop.

The shirt pulled just enough when he lifted the coat that it made the strength in his build impossible to miss. Clean lines.

“You don’t have to—”

Nanami stepped closer and lifted the jacket, settling it around your shoulders in one smooth motion. He was careful with it. Careful with your hair, careful not to let his hands linger longer than necessary, careful in all the ways that mattered and not at all in the way that counted, because the second the fabric rested on you, the intimacy of it became impossible to ignore.

The jacket was too large on you, obviously his in every line. The sleeves swallowed your hands. The faint warmth left in the lining and the trace of his cologne wrapped around you at once, and for one mortifying second, you pressed the collar a little closer without thinking.

Nanami’s gaze caught on the movement immediately.

Nearby, Gojo had fallen silent in the most alarming way possible, already tapping at his phone.

You went still before regaining some composure.

Your fingers rose to the lapels, pulling them a little closer around yourself. “Thank you,” you said, and your voice had gone quieter too. Not just polite. Aware.

Nanami inclined his head once, as though this were nothing. As though his pulse had not kicked harder the moment he saw you standing inside something that belonged to him.

He had caught it, or at least, he hoped he had. The small, unconscious draw of the collar toward your nose. You had noticed the scent of him in the fabric, and some humiliating, hopeless part of him lit up at once.

Worse, he found himself clinging to it, to the possibility that you had liked it enough to hold it there for that extra second.

“It suits you,” Gojo said.

“Gojo,” Nanami said.

“What? It does.”

You laughed under your breath, then glanced up at Nanami through the lingering warmth in your face. “I really was alright.”

“I know,” he said again.

There was a brief pause.

Gojo looked between the two of you like a man witnessing a private event he had no business attending.

You smiled, ducking your face for a second into the collar of Nanami’s jacket. The motion was shy enough to feel unintentional. It nearly finished him off where he stood.

You adjusted the sleeves of Nanami’s jacket, then looked up at him with that shy, softened expression that had already done enough damage.

Gojo made a strangled sound beside you, like he was physically suffering through the sight of it. “This is obscene.”

Neither of you looked at him.

Which, unfortunately, gave him exactly the opening he wanted.

There was a faint click.

Nanami’s head turned at once.

Gojo had his phone half-lifted in one hand, already grinning down at the screen. “Oh, that’s awful,” he said, sounding delighted. “You look ridiculously cute in his jacket.”

You blinked. “Did you just take a picture?”

“Maybe.”

“Gojo.”

His thumb moved across the screen once, twice.

Nanami’s phone buzzed in his pocket.

A second later, yours did too.

The silence that followed lasted only a beat before Gojo’s grin widened into something openly smug. Nanami did not need to check. The exact same thought had clearly occurred to you, because the moment your phone buzzed again, your face changed.

“Gojo,” you said again, this time with horrified certainty. “You didn’t.”

He looked entirely too pleased with himself. “What? It was a good photo.”

Nanami took out his phone anyway, more out of grim confirmation than curiosity. He looked down once, expression flattening further, then locked the screen without a word.

That was enough to make you glance at your own.

The second you did, your face went warm all over again. You made a small sound somewhere between embarrassment and disbelief, and immediately lowered the phone, as if that might undo the fact that the picture was no longer sitting privately on Gojo’s screen but in the group chat, where the students could tear it apart at their leisure.

Gojo, naturally, looked thrilled.

Both your phones buzzed again.

Then again.

Neither of you checked this time.

Nanami slipped his phone back into his pocket with the measured restraint of a man seconds away from violence. “Delete it.”

“Can’t,” Gojo said easily. “People are clearly engaging.”

“That is not how consent works,” you muttered, still trying not to look too mortified.

Gojo put a hand to his chest. “You wound me. I captured a beautiful candid moment.”

Nanami stared at him. “You are intolerable.”

“And yet,” Gojo said, glancing at you bundled in Nanami’s jacket, “I’m the only reason this memory now exists in high definition.”

That, somehow, was what finally made you laugh.

It slipped out before you could stop it, small, embarrassed, helpless, and the moment you realised, your hand flew to your mouth. You were still warm in the face, still half-hidden in Nanami’s jacket, still smiling despite yourself.

Gojo pointed between the two of you, as if he had just proven something scientifically. “See? Not a single real complaint.”

“I am complaining,” Nanami said.

“No, you’re humiliated. Different.”

Another buzz vibrated from his pocket. Then yours.

You closed your eyes briefly. “I’m never opening that chat again.”

Gojo looked delighted. “That bad, huh?”

Nanami exhaled slowly through his nose. “Leave.”

For once, Gojo seemed to recognise he had pushed the moment exactly as far as it could go without being physically removed from it.

“Fine,” he said. “I’ll go. Try not to make it even more obvious on the walk back.”

“Gojo,” both of you said at once.

That only made him laugh harder. Then Gojo threw an arm around both of your shoulders from behind.

“Great lunch,” he announced. “Next time let’s do dinner.”

“There will be no next time,” Nanami said immediately. You laughed again, warm and helpless between them, and Nanami, against all reason, knew he’d remember the sound of it for the rest of the evening.

He turned and sauntered off, still far too pleased with himself, while behind him both of your phones buzzed yet again.

Neither of you reached for them.

The silence he left behind felt completely different from the ones before, warmer, heavier, and somehow more embarrassing now that there was no third person there to absorb any of it.

You adjusted the lapel of Nanami’s jacket with quiet fingers and glanced up at him. “I think he’s going to be unbearable about this.”

“He already is.”

That made you smile.

This time, when the breeze moved through the street again, you pulled the jacket a little closer around yourself instead of pretending not to need it.

Nanami noticed that too.

By the time you parted, the absence of his coat had taken on a life of its own.

The wind through his shirt should have meant nothing, but it kept reminding him where his suit jacket was, wrapped around your shoulders, carrying your warmth in its lining, marked now by the impossible privilege of having belonged to you for an afternoon.

He knew that when he got it back, it would never feel the same.

Nanami realized, with the kind of certainty that made resistance useless, that it had just become his favorite coat, and that he was hopelessly, irretrievably gone.